Finders, Keepers
by Della19
Summary: Harold doesn't get a beer-a clue, though, he get one of those. Safety in numbers they say, but Harold only feels safe if one of those numbers is John. But that's alright because well, Harold found him-that means he gets to keep him. Right? Coda to 2x03. Finch/Reese.


Finders, Keepers

Summary: Harold doesn't get a beer-a clue, though, he get one of those. Safety in numbers they say, but Harold only feels safe if one of those numbers is John. But that's alright because well, Harold found him-that means he gets to keep him. Right? Or, it's a panic attack. So let's do it once more. With feelings. Finch/Reese.

Disclaimer: Nope. But a girl can dream.

Warnings: Spoilers for 2x01-2x03.

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_You found me/When no one else was lookin'/How did you know just where I would be?/Yeah, you broke through/All of my confusion/The ups and the downs/And you still didn't leave/I guess that you saw what nobody could see/You found me_-Kelly Clarkson, _You Found Me_

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Harold is no stranger to betrayal.

His own body does it to him on a daily basis-a cage of flesh and steel that refuses to do what it once did. Run, turn his head, breathe without pain-all things that he has lost-betrayals of his body that limit him in ways that he never was.

But these things, somehow, were never so terrible-never so overwhelming-because Harold still had his _mind_. The physical is one thing, and it's loss is certainly not pleasant, but Harold copes, because his mind has not abandoned him-his computer skills, his aliases, his ability to make money to fund this mad enterprise of theirs all are still present, and so Harold can accept the betrayals of his body, so long as he can still do this.

His mind has never betrayed him.

And then Root takes him, and Harold can't get more than a foot outside the door, frozen in fear.

A betrayal of his mind.

And it is this betrayal that has the power to destroy him.

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But he's getting ahead of himself.

It happens something like this.

But only _something._

Fear robs him of much.

Memory is one of those things.

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The library, and work, and a number.

_I'm fine , no beer_, and Reese leaving, leaving him with the dog, leaving him, _leaving him_…

Stop, think.

The ball, the dog, the treats, the file.

Root.

_DeathandscreamingandWeeksand torture._

Stop, think.

Work.

The number, the girl.

The girl, and John, and John needs him, needs his help.

_I was lost, what happened, someone found me._

Can breathe, heart calms, iron bands around the wrists loosen. He found John, and John found him, and it will all be alright.

The girl, and John, and John needs his help.

Outside.

The dog, a leash, and the door. Just steps, walked it every day, one foot in front of the other.

Just breathe, it's alright; just people, just people, living their lives.

Just so many _innocent_ people.

_You try and get away, and innocent people will die._

Root.

_FearanddeathandI'llbeseeingyouagainHarold._

Stop.

Can't think.

Inside, have to get inside.

Can't breathe, can't think.

I'm sorry, Mr. Reese.

_I'm sorry._

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What good is a man who can't do what is needed of him?

No good.

No good to Reese.

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The file.

The root cause of this.

Root, the root cause of this.

Think, think, _think_!

John, John's back, he didn't leave…

Can think again.

John's back, and he can think again.

Can remember again.

Root.

If you come after us again, you'll regret it.

_Us._

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Oh.

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He still doesn't want a beer.

He just wants to feel safe, he just wants to feel normal again…like he feels now, with Reese.

Oh.

_Oh._

Well, isn't this just…_inconvenient_.

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Fear robs him of much.

He doesn't want it to take this.

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He gets the leash again, all the while aware of John's gaze on him, a delicate mix of protective concern and cautious worry. And yet, despite the time it takes-and Harold is staling, he is man enough to admit this-John never shows impatience, or voices any need for hurry. He simply stands, and waits, patiently, like he could wait for Harold for all the rest of his days, wait for him to be ready.

It gives him much to think about.

Because well, regarding his rather…inconvenient epiphany; it's natural, surely, that he feels this way. Understandable even, that John makes him feel safe, when no one else would. Doesn't mean anything more than that John was the one who came for him when Root had him, John was the one who proved her wrong, and John was the one who saved him.

John was the one who _found_ him.

_I was lost, what happened, someone found me._

Harold wants very fiercely to keep him, and to be kept in return.

He has never been very good at fooling himself.

Of _course_ it means something more.

But John is watching, waiting for him, and as Harold imagines that the last thing that John Reese, so badly treated by his last masters, is to be _kept_ he hides this thing, hardly new, but finally acknowledged away in favor of leashing up the killer dog who likes to play fetch, and when he finally turns to meet the waiting Reese, he is proud of the control of his facial features, sure they reveal nothing.

And then they get to the threshold, Harold can't help but hesitate, berating himself even as he does, because it's just a door, just a street he's walked a thousand times. Just a street full of people.

_All the innocent people._

But then, before his muscles can lock up, before the panic can set in and steal his mind, there's Reese, and a warm hand on his forearm, grounding him.

His facial control is not so masterful now, and if he had half a mind left, he would fear the things that John could see, so terribly telling.

Yes, it means _so much_ more.

But there is only warmth in John's eyes, and empathy-nothing so cutting and terrible as pity-and when he speaks, his voice is so fond that the fear doesn't stand a chance.

"Once, when I was about six and playing with friends in the woods, I found an abandoned puppy. I wanted to keep him so badly, but I was sure that had to belong to someone, and that I had to give it back to them," And then John's eyes crinkle, briefly, recalling the moment, before he continues, voice serious despite the whimsy of the subject matter, and Harold finds himself unable to look away. "And then one of my friends introduced me to the concept of finders, keepers; losers, weepers; I'd found him, so I got to keep him. And so I did."

And then, with a brief, rueful look down at Bear and a fond scratch behind one ear, still sitting faithfully at Harold's side, before returning his gaze back to Harold's own, "I suppose you could say it's a concept I still keep to, from time to time."

"The point, Mr. Reese?" He asks, voice steady, but his hands are shaking on the leash, and it's a question purely for show.

They _both_ know the point.

John certainly does, the devastating smile that creeps into_ just_ the edges of his mouth proof of that as he declares, in that rasp of his, "You found me, Mr. Finch." And although his eyes are twinkling, there is something so _wonderfully_ serious about the moment, that proclaims this a true claim and not a weightless tease as he drawls, voice low and slow, "And if I remember correctly, that means you get to keep me."

"That doesn't bother you, Mr. Reese? Being kept?" Harold asks, to the leash, unable to meet John's eyes, his need for privacy rebelling feeding his fear of rejection. But his worries are clearly for naught as John squeezes his forearm gently, nothing more or less than support, in its base form, and when Harold finally brings his eyes up again, the sheer emotion in John's own nearly steals his breath.

"You seem to forget, I found you as well, Finch," John says, and although his tone now is certainly a tease, his eyes are intense and serious, and this is nothing less than a claim on his very soul, "And if I remember correctly, that means I get to keep you."

"I forgot nothing, Mr. Reese," Harold says finally, voice carefully bland and unwavering, eyes fixed on John's own, but they both know what he is really saying-what he is agreeing to.

"Good," John says, voice low, nearly a purr, and the _promise_ in that tone, in those eyes weakens him at the knees.

His to keep, and be kept in return.

Harold is a businessman; he's bought companies, ruined empires and made and lost fortunes in the span of a day.

He's never made a deal better than this, and he never will.

And then Reese; Reese who does what Harold can't, Reese who knows what Harold needs, holds out his hand.

And Harold, does something he feared he'd never do again.

He smiles.

And takes it.

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Harold is no stranger to betrayal.

And now, he must add his mind to the list of that which has betrayed him, and it was a betrayal that could have destroyed him.

Alone, it would have.

But Harold…Harold is not alone anymore.

Harold found someone, and that means he gets to keep him.

And _oh_, he will.

Someone who found him in return.

Finders, keepers.

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Root.

Losers, weepers.

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He is still afraid, but knowing what he knows now, it does not paralyze him.

Fear robs him of much.

Reese is not one of those things.

Reese, he gets to keep.

He steps outside.

And keeps walking, Reese at his side.

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Harold doesn't get a beer.

John does; Heineken, not a favorite of Harold's.

The taste of it, later, lingering in John's mouth, bothers him much less than it should.

Yes, he is definitely keeping him.

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FIN

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A/N: Ok this; absolutely not my fault. Seriously, "someone one found me?!" The show is just baiting me at this point. This fic ended up a bit freeform, especially in Harold's recollections, but my mother, who suffered from panic attacks for several years, always described them that way, and I wanted to capture the true nature of an attack, and especially the fear, given how important his mind is to Harold. That said, I've also got some scar-related context-porn I'm playing around with, so it seems I'm not done in this fandom yet. So, look for that in the future, and as always, enjoy, and reviews and constructive criticism are welcome. Seriously, I'm a feedback whore; it makes me write quicker!


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